


Legacy

by TheVulcanBobDylan



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:46:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29892372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVulcanBobDylan/pseuds/TheVulcanBobDylan
Summary: In which Bill and Laura decidedly don't frak
Relationships: William Adama/Laura Roslin
Comments: 5
Kudos: 14





	Legacy

**Author's Note:**

> Set after Bill convinces Laura not to steal the election in Lay Down Your Burdens (s02e20)

It was over. _Over_. The word had been tumbling around in Laura’s head for hours.

A little mirror hung on the wall above her tiny sink, reflecting a face that looked wan and pale in the dim light of false nighttime. To one side sat her only chair, and balanced atop that, her suitcase. For months it had been her makeshift dresser, and she carefully folded every garment before tucking it away, a small ritual that both eased and highlighted the strangeness of living aboard Colonial One. 

Tonight was an exception. Her blazer was cast over the corner of her mattress, her pink blouse discarded atop the other items in the suitcase without regard for wrinkles. Now she was dressed in the silky white nightgown she’d packed for her overnight trip, what seemed a lifetime ago, and snuggled into the white robe that Billy had found for her when she was dying. Her glasses were tucked into her neckline, where she always kept them when she dressed for bed, expecting to read for a while before falling asleep.

She doubted she’d be doing much reading this evening.

Half-dried tears streaked her cheeks. She’d tried to hold them back and muster a smile for the Admiral, to convey no remorse, but they’d spilled over anyway as he’d turned that hooded gaze on her, assessing her. It was adrenaline, she told herself, rather than grief.

She’d never wanted the job, for frak’s sake - hadn’t even wanted the cabinet position, the one that led her into this mess. She’d been fighting to get out of it every step of the way and yet today, she’d gambled nearly everything to stay in the game. She’d always known politicians were out of their minds, but in her gut was a deep ache, heavy with knowing that the fleet, in some sense, needed her.

She’d failed them. It was over.

Green eyes rimmed with red admonished her from the tiny mirror, but she wasn’t really seeing them - wasn’t really criticizing the translucent skin, the crows’ feet, the hair dry and a little wild from months of using only scavenged shampoo. Her thoughts were so far beyond the little airliner cabin that a knock at the door made her jump forcefully, and she placed her fingertips on top of the suitcase to steady herself.

It could only be Tory. Pulling the neck of her robe closed, she felt a pang of longing for Billy, whose awkwardness would’ve made her feel calm and a little maternal. Dressed in her nightgown, it still would’ve been easier to open the door to him than to Tory, whose hard eyes always carried a hint of judgment. She wiped her cheeks, closed her eyes, and steeled herself for a split second with her hand on the latch.

By the time the door swung open, her expression was businesslike enough to make up for her attire. But the effort of maintaining it was completely overwhelmed when she found not Tory but a uniformed and unreadable Admiral Adama on the other side. His face, at the sight of her, could only be a reflection of her own. If her emotions were less raw she could almost have laughed at the image of them, both standing there in utter surprise, his eyes making a valiant effort not to stray down to her neckline and beyond.

Almost as quickly as she could muster a wry half-smile, he was giving her that appraising squint. The moment seemed briefly frozen in time.

“Admiral. I wasn’t expecting you. Please come in.”

She stood back to let him pass, calling up the same resolve she’d needed for Tory, holding herself in her most presidential posture. Her eyes suddenly felt very dry, and she quickly donned her glasses to hide them. She tried not to think about how red-rimmed and bloodshot they must be - tried even harder not to remember certain other things. 

The memories sprang to mind in spite of her efforts. _Crushing her lips into his. The hair of his chest against her face. His hands sliding down her thighs._ She blinked hard.

With his back to her, he was placing a small case on the table, unzipping it and removing something. “Baltar agreed to accept his victory with no further resistance,” he was saying. Laura forced her thoughts back to the present.

“I’m glad to hear it.” Surely this update could’ve been conveyed by phone.

Adama stepped aside and revealed what he’d arranged on her low table: a bottle of ambrosia and two half-full tumblers. “You could use a drink,” he informed her. 

She sank onto the glorified cot that had served her for a bed the past few months, wordlessly accepting the tumbler from his outstretched hand. He’d seen her this way before - bundled into her robe, in bed, pale and weak and vulnerable. He’d held her hand, fetched her water, cared for her nearly as much as Billy had. She sipped her drink without conviction.

“And maybe a drinking buddy,” he added. That squint again. His face was serious, even guarded, but he met her eyes steadily. He was waiting - patiently, to be sure, but waiting - for her to break her silence, to give him a sign.

She imagined him and Tigh, getting shitfaced in one cabin or another, coping with whatever setbacks or despairs had confronted them throughout their long careers. Drowning their sorrows. The thought brought a real smile to her lips, and she met his gaze at last, taking another sip.

“Going to show me how you military men cope with defeat?” 

“Drink up, Roslin.” His look of appraisal was gone and his hooded eyes were twinkling now, a smile teasing the corners of his mouth. He raised his glass in the sketch of a toast.

_Her lips capture his, smothering his smile. Her arms are pinned to her sides by her open blouse, and she hurriedly frees them by discarding it. He is unclasping her bra, sliding his rough hands under the black lace to smooth over her breasts, pinch her nipples. She gasps into his mouth, kisses his jaw, nuzzles his pulse point as he teases her nipples to near-painful hardness._

That night was a mistake, she had told herself firmly, but the memories had a way of popping up when she needed them the least. In CIC, for instance. She’d caught him raking her with his gaze; he’d caught her doing the same. But avoiding one another's eyes turned out to be as provocative as meeting them. She took another sip, heartier this time, then chuckled at him standing aimlessly across from her.

“I’m sorry I don’t have any place for you to sit. I’ve never really received visitors in here.” She gestured to the suitcase, which he gingerly lifted to the ground. It hadn’t been moved from the cabin’s only chair since she’d taken up residence there.

“Not having many friends over to recount the day’s politics?” he teased.

_A friend._ That’s what he was to her. A friend she had, perhaps, once frakked in an utter breakdown of decorum. Predictably, they had never spoken of it - she'd simply disappeared, sometime in the half-light of ship's morning. She had told herself he must be relieved to find her so conveniently gone. Later, she told herself she regretted it, but sometimes, when she was alone...

_A finger sliding through her wetness. An arm pulling her in, to straddle his lap until her swollen folds meet the tented fabric of his uniform slacks. His hands slide up the bare skin of her ribs. She catches his lower lip between her teeth._

She was too emotionally raw for this, too drained even to ask him to leave, much less carry on their customary banter. Having him this close was dangerous. An impulsive part of her wanted to challenge him - or to touch him. She cleared her throat.

“I couldn’t sit over there and think of you coping with this alone. You’re a friend, Laura, president or not.”

That word again. Her fingers laced around the glass were trembling slightly, and a fresh tear stole down her cheek. She must look awful, she thought - face puffy, hair frazzled, fluffy robe enveloping her. There was no reason his stolid, measured friendship should make her self-conscious, but then there was no accounting for her thoughts anymore. Her mind had been spinning out of control since their earlier conversation, when he’d sat down rather than leaving - when he'd pointedly begun using the word “we.”

“Thank you, Bill. I’m afraid it’s been a while since I’ve drowned my sorrows in a drink with a friend.” She took off her glasses and stared at them in her lap.

_She pulls his pants and boxers to his ankles in one motion, then abandons him to kick them off on his own. She is already back in his lap, poised so that his tip teases her entrance, taking his face in her hands and kissing him hungrily. Their tongues and lips are locked in a clumsy dance, drunk on each other. She guides him in with one hand, stroking his shaft as she sinks down onto him, driving him deep, taking her time. He moans into her mouth._

“You could start by actually drinking it,” he suggested. She glanced at him and found his eyes twinkling. Did he really think they could pick up like this, as if nothing had happened between them?

She downed the amber liquid, giving in to the warming sensation that spread from her belly. “It does help a little.” She managed a small smirk, trying to ignore the tear that slid through her smile lines into the corner of her mouth. 

She looked up at him then, her smile growing wan and earnest. With her free hand, she smoothed the tears from her face, covering her mouth, meeting his gaze with a sigh. His presence - not just in her room, but as her co-conspirator - was reassuring. He had placed himself firmly on her side.

_His hands clutch at her hips, driving himself up and into her as she matches his rhythm, throwing her hair back, knowing he’s watching her. She touches herself, letting his fullness and her fingers bring her to the brink of climax. He grunts a curse, then her name, as he finds his release inside her, and she tumbles over the edge after him, feeling her walls clench and her legs shake. She drops her head onto his shoulder._

He stood and joined her on the cot, turning sideways to look past her out the small window. "Some view you've got there." She turned to follow his gaze. Beyond Colonial One, about half the fleet was arranged haphazardly against the backdrop of stars.

Sighing regretfully, she didn't notice him move backward to lean against her pillows. She started a bit when she felt his hands on her shoulders, pulling her into him, gathering her into his arms. She let herself be drawn back until she was sitting between his knees, resting against his chest. It was too comfortable to protest.

She turned into him a bit and felt his lips brush against her hair as she took a ragged breath. “I guess I finally frakked everything up, didn’t I?” She squeezed her eyes shut, but couldn’t keep the tears from spilling down her cheeks.

He was still breathing into her hair. “No. You did good, Laura. Better than anyone could’ve expected. You kept this fleet together. You were tough as nails, and you passed that strength on to every one of us. You kept all of us alive. That will be your legacy.”

A little sob shook her - or was it a laugh? He rubbed her arms through the robe, and then they were quiet, both looking out on the fleet that had used her up and rejected her.

“My legacy,” she murmured, tasting the word, never having considered it at all. He held her, and a little of the ache seemed to melt away for a while.


End file.
